I was ready. Ready to face my submissive feelings, ready to meet a Mistress for the very fist time. But how should I greet Her? I couldn’t say: hello darling, what’s up, could I? Drooling all over Her cheeks also didn’t feel right. I mean, She was a Lady, not a stamp. Pumping Her arm up and down in a meaningless handshake? I just didn’t know and I worried a lot about it. But as She opened the door my instincts set in and I kissed Her hand. Like a gentleman would do. It was that simple. Now, archaeologists have discovered inscriptions on the walls of Pompeii (smothered in lava in 79 AD). One of them says: He who has never been in love can be no gentleman. If we take that as an inspiration for this post, then I would say: He who’s not a gentleman can be no slave. Because you’ll never reach the summit of submission without being considerate, courteous, respectful and well-mannered. Kiss the hand that guides you and take it from there. That’s all there is to it.
It was late, the streets were deserted and I walked as fast as I could. And then, out of the blue really, these Women were all over me. Two minutes later I sat on the pavement with my hands cuffed behind my back. Three Female Cops looked down on me and I must say their shiny uniforms caused an all rise event between my legs. Now, I’m rather pathetic when it comes down to uniforms. Putting on a nurse uniform doesn’t make you a nurse, they say. But somehow I fail to see that. Santa Claus has that same effect on me. I know it’s Fred, the guy living at 67-C, but with his suit and beard he really is Santa Claus. So to me these Girls were real cops and they could arrest, interrogate or imprison me. In this case they fined me for speeding. Which was ridiculous, because I was on foot! But I was way too intimidated to go into that. So they dragged me to a cash-machine, took my wallet and my card out and ordered me to give them the pin code. I obeyed without hesitation and ended up paying $500 for race-walking. Don’t let it happen again they said and disappeared into the night.
We stood outside the terminal. In less than two hours time I would be high above the clouds and on my way back home. I had such a wonderful time and my head was still spinning of happiness. So much so that I didn’t hear Her question. She grabbed me by the balls and squeezed them hard. That got my intention! Her grip tightened and She twisted my marbles with brutal force. I screamed like a castrate with a dildo op its ass and bounced up and down like a skippy-ball. Her face was close to mine and Her eyes and angry voice lashed out at me. She walked up and down in front of the terminal for quite some time and I bowlegged behind Her. It was – in every meaning of the word – a painful goodbye. During the flight the stewardess asked me if I wanted some freshly squeezed orange-juice. I shivered all over.
No one forced them to sign the Lifetime Slavery Contract. They did so on their own free will. They knew it meant surrendering life, limb and all earthly possessions to Ladies in Charge (LIC), the leading Femdom organisation in the world. That signature marked the end of a life in freedom and the beginning of a life in slavery. It’s what they wanted, it’s what they begged and paid for. And yet there were runaways. Men who crumbled under the joke of Female Power. They ran and tried to hide. But the Bounty Bitches would stop at nothing to capture them and bring them back in chains. They loved to chase them down, corner them and make them surrender. Loved it when these tough, muscular men grovelled and begged for mercy. God, it made them feel so powerful! Yes, it was the best of times for Women, it was the worst of times for men, it was the age of Femdom, it was the age of slavery. (Chronicles: 2166 AD)
They circled around me like sharks with an appetite. I tried to look calm, cool and collective, but I was shaking like a shitting dog. “He’s way too tall for a cushion or a doormat,” a Mistress said. Everyone agreed. One of them pinched me several times and said: “it’s not mahogany, certainly not good enough to be a side table or even a footstool.” A voice behind me said: “It’s not an art piece either; the arms, legs and head…it’s all a bit too experimental,” They all laughed. A Lady sighed: “he could be a hatrack or a floor luminaire, I suppose.” And so I became one of the IKEA boys at the annual Femdom Celebrations. Can’t tell you much about the festivities, though. I stood there all day with a lampshade over my head. Didn’t see a bloody thing.
The Hunteress (aka Cassie Canes, aka Cassie Hunter) is said to be one of the hardest and most accurate caners in the business. She’ll set your ass on fire without using matches and the marks will be visible for several weeks. Painful reminders, so to speak. She doesn’t believe in submissive wish-lists, which is such a relief and a real blessing I would say. Because it’s really not up to a sub to decide how a Lady should dress, what She can and can’t do to him. If that would be the case, then who’s the Dom at the end of that day? Anyway, this Lady will make you fly all over the place, so if you’re blessed with a concrete ass and if you’re ready to rumble, then visit Her Sessions page over here (The Hunteress is available for sessions in Barcelona, Leeds & London).
I’ve been digging, sawing and hammering like a madman and sweat is pouring down my face. Mistress takes pity on me it seems and asks me if I want something to drink. It makes me blush and shy and I thank Her several times for being so kind to me. A bit of water will do, I say. Five minutes later my hands are tied behind my back and I’m hanging upside down above a huge barrel of water. Enjoy the drink, slave, Mistress says. And down I go, like a ton of bricks and with a huge splash. Fish swim, fuck and shit in water, but I’m not a fish. Mistress pulls me up and I hang there like a giant eel. I want to say something, but down I go again. I gasp, sneeze and cough like the Loch Ness monster as I emerge from the barrel. Don’t ever ask a Mistress for some water, that’s my advice. Unless you’re wearing a snorkel of course.
A marriage between a Mistress and a slave is based on love. It’s hard to find, because there are still far more men than Women prepared to walk down the D/s aisle. It’s a Holy Grail Relationship so to speak. But that doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to dream about it. Take the marriage itself for example. It would not be a brutal ceremony, I think. You’re not whipped down the aisle or anything like that. No, it’s a celebration of love, like any other wedding ceremony. The only difference lies in the deeper meaning of these three little words: Yes, I do. It means you’re surrendering yourself to Her will, for better or for worse, till death do you part. And your Lady has to answer the question that says it all: Do You, Milady, take this man to have and to hold? So sweet! You may now slap the groom. Well, that gives it away a little of course, but to hear these words is like hearing the most beautiful music ever written. Yes, sweet dreams are made of this.
Cleaning my own house is not what I would call a hobby of mine. It’s such a waste of time and once it’s finished you’ll have to start all over again. So I bought myself a cleaning robot two years ago. I’ve named it Annett (excellent on the floor, disappointing in bed) just to make my life a little easier. And yet I’ve spent a crazy amount of time scrubbing and cleaning for Mistresses and I loved, loved, loved it. That wasn’t a waste of time, that was Heaven! It made me feel great, because making yourself useful, that’s what slavery is all about, isn’t it. Working your ass off for a Mistress is a reward, nothing less. But of course, Mistresses strive for perfection, so spick-and-span punishments are inevitable. During the scrubbing or afterwards. Yes, cleaning for a Mistress is absolutely gorgeous and I can only hope and prey they’ll never, ever replace us for a cleaning robot.
Trampling is a bit like wiping your feet, isn’t it. But as we all know; each and every punishment in the formidable Femdom toolbox ranges from mild to wild. Trampling is no exception. Barefoot trampling for example is rather nice, it’s like a massage of some sorts. Although walking up and down your nuts is a whole different ballgame altogether. However, the real trouble starts with platform shoes and sneakers, but even that’s nothing compared to high heels and heeled boots. That’s plain agony, especially when Mistress starts dancing on your nipples, or even worse; decides to nail your scrotum to the floor with Her Heels. That’s not a massage, my friends, that’s crushing blueberries with a sledge hammer. B-flat!
So 48 people 👎 Mozart’s Requiem. Now what? Dig the guy up, slap him silly and tell him his music sucks? Seriously, who cares what others have to say about the things we love. If I would ask my family, friends and colleagues to Like or Dislike Femdom, then the final result would probably be: 👍1 versus 👎99. And the only yea vote would come from uncle Fred, who’s the black sheep of the family for marrying one of his goats. Would the outcome change the way I feel about Female Domination? Of course not! So I for one am immensely grateful that slaves are not allowed to like or dislike. Well, we may (dis)like certain things, but we’re not allowed to bore a Mistress to death with it. All we have to do is follow Her voice and take it as it comes. When asked, we’ll 👍 everything Mistress throws at us. Life can be that simple!
I know that I am being followed. Because She’s out there somewhere, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment. Daily text messages summon me to go to certain shops, streets or buildings. It’s nerve-wrecking. A few days ago I had to go to a Coffee Shop and I sat there being paranoid for almost two hours. I’d ordered a cappuccino, but the waitress gave me a regular coffee. Why? Was it some sort of secret message? If so, it was beyond me. I’m a nervous wreck, I really am. I hardly sleep at night and I’m constantly seeing and hearing things. Yesterday I went to the supermarket and ducked away behind the toilet paper, because I thought I saw Her. The security camera zoomed in on me, it was embarrassing. I know I don’t stand a chance against Her, She can overpower and kidnap me whenever She wants. I know it’s going to happen, but I don’t know where and I don’t know when. She’s the Hunter, I’m the prey. This has always been one of my favourite fantasies, but right now I’m ready to piss my pants.
Her grandparents lived round the corner and She came over to spend Her summer holidays there. I can’t remember Her name, but I do remember Her face and the leather cowboy hat She wore. I adored Her, looked up to Her; She looked so cool and so different in some sort of way. I was ten years old, She was fifteen. One day the neighbourhood Girls got steamed up over something and started chasing the boys. We ran like chickens and the Cowgirl came after me. She was fast and strong and I didn’t stand a chance. She pinned me down on the grass and I started screaming for help. Heroism is only skin deep, you see. I’m pretty sure that’s the reason why She decided to sit down on my face; just to shut me up. It was terribly humiliating to gasp for air after a while, but it felt sensational. I actually begged Her to do it again, which became a never-ending joke in the neighbourhood. So my first facesit happened purely accidental, but it still leaves me breathless.
The Lady behind the bar served me my drink and gave me a card. Welcome to The Arm Bar it said. Underneath were some extraordinary puzzling things, like: Single Arm Bar, Single Double Arm Bar and Duo Double Arm Bar. All with the numbers 15-30-45-60 printed behind them. I had no idea what it all meant, but I didn’t want to look like an idiot, so I went for the Duo Double 60. Whatever that might be. A cocktail perhaps? I had to go upstairs, where two lovely Ladies told me to lay down and relax. A massage! Why didn’t I think of that before! Sixteen seconds later my arms were tightly locked in an armbar (aha!). The pain was excruciating, it really was. I screamed like a pig with an ulcer, but they kept me barred in agony for an hour. When I went home that night I looked like Frankenstein, unable to raise my arms and mumbling gibberish. Awesome!
I was about ten years old when I started writing fantasy stories. About unknown islands where marooned sailors were kept in captivity, about Female gladiators, heroines and Lady vampires who all ruled with a vengeance. It was all very childish of course, but the fascination for superior Women was already there. And the most awe-inspiring and intimidating image I could think of back then, was a Woman on horseback. Well, it still is an extremely powerful thing, to be honest. You have to look up to Her to see Her face, which is pretty much as if you’re down on your knees in front of a Mistress. It’s instant superiority (or instant submission if you like). And you know you can’t outrun Her, no sir. She can hunt you down, capture you and drag you tied up and everything through fields and villages for days on end. Magnificent really, isn’t it.